


come back down to my knees

by gildedlily



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, takes place on a tennis court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27982176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedlily/pseuds/gildedlily
Summary: Here are two truths and a lie: Jeonghan is good at lying. Jeonghan is not a liar by default. Jeonghan does not know who Jeon Wonwoo is.
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Yoon Jeonghan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74
Collections: WIP OLYMPICS: WINTER 2020/21





	come back down to my knees

**Author's Note:**

> title from “life itself” by glass animals  
> a tennis court at ten o’clock at night can be a liminal space, actually

The first time Jeonghan steps onto a tennis court, he is seven and quaking, his hands gripped tightly around the too-large racquet that had been a hand-me-down from his cousin. Needless to say, it goes downhill from there, culminating in him tripping over a tennis ball and scraping his knees. At the end of the group lesson, he is left with bloody knees, a bruised ego, and an unshakeable friendship with Choi Seungcheol, also age seven, but actually gifted with hand-eye coordination.

Jeonghan is counting on this unshakeable friendship to save him when Seungcheol, now the captain of the men’s tennis team at their university, inevitably discovers that he has lifted the spare set of keys to the tennis court. _At least tennis ended well for one of us_ , Jeonghan thinks as he sees the tennis courts in the distance, the LED lights blinding in the otherwise darkness.

As he approaches the courts, he hears the snap of a racquet and the subsequent sound of a tennis ball bouncing off the court surface. A lone figure is standing at the baseline of the closest court, their face turned away from Jeonghan as they throw up a ball and draw their arm back, body taut like a bowstring, before bringing their racquet up and snapping their wrist down on the ball. The ball arcs over the net, landing in the edge of the service box with a thud, then flying off the court.

“Nice serve,” Jeonghan calls out, unable to help himself. The person turns around at the noise, and Jeonghan notices the court lights glaring on their glasses, their sharp nose, and their mouth pursed in concentration before his mind recognizes their face. “Wonwoo,” he says, reaching the chain-link fence and opening the unlocked gate to walk onto the courts, closing the gate behind him. “What brings you here at,” Jeonghan looks down at his phone, “ten at night?” From the ball hopper that is half filled and the sea of tennis balls coloring the other side of the court fluorescent yellow, Jeonghan can probably guess, but sue him. He’s curious and, from the furrow in Wonwoo’s brows, Wonwoo clearly wasn’t expecting company.

“Just practicing,” Wonwoo says. “Seungcheol-hyung lent me a spare key.”

Even if Jeonghan has known Seungcheol since they both were seven, which consequently makes him well-aware of Seungcheol’s thoughts on practice and overworking, he might have let the lie slide. However, Wonwoo just _had to_ mention the spare key, and Jeonghan is not a liar by default.

Jeonghan takes the set of spare keys out of his pocket and holds it up, the light glinting off the metal. “You sure about that?”

Wonwoo grimaces, his face twisting in shame.

“Okay,” he concedes, “so I borrowed the key from Seungcheol-hyung.”

“Glad we got that sorted out,” Jeonghan says, lips curling up into what Joshua had affectionately dubbed the asshole business smile, the same smile he uses after giving a debate rebuttal or presenting in his marketing class. Speaking of which… “Are you taking Marketing with Professor Bae?” he asks.

Wonwoo looks rightfully wary, like he’s scared Jeonghan will make him admit that he accidentally killed his pet goldfish when he was eight and blamed it on his younger brother or something equally damning, but nods in response.

“Neat.” Jeon Wonwoo from marketing class wears a blazer and slicks his hair back on presentation days. The Jeon Wonwoo in front of him is wearing a Nike shirt and shorts, his hair pulled back with a sweatband. “Mind if I stay?”

“Not at all.”

Jeonghan takes his backpack off and sits down on the court next to Wonwoo’s, the concrete cold underneath his hands. The next few serves either go long or crash into the net as Wonwoo finds his pacing again, the addition of Jeonghan’s presence certainly not helping him. Gradually, Wonwoo builds up a rhythm, and soon enough he’s back to acing his serves in the service box.

Here are two truths and a lie: Jeonghan is good at lying. Jeonghan is not a liar by default. Jeonghan does not know who Jeon Wonwoo is.

The best lies, Jeonghan has long ago learned, contain some element of truth. He does not know who Jeon Wonwoo is, does not know how he thinks, does not know his ambitions or what he wants to do in the future. But he does know the determination in Wonwoo’s eyes when he’s serving at match point, his focus unwavering; knows his ritual of spinning the racquet three times in his hands before the start of a point, knows how he smiles after winning, the way his eyes brighten and his nose scrunches.

He knows what Wonwoo looks like after two cans of beer, tipsy as hell at a party held in Seungcheol and Jeonghan’s apartment. The tennis team was packed in the living room, celebrating some recent victory, and Jeonghan remembers the way Wonwoo had gazed at him, his eyes sharp like he was on the court calculating where to aim a volley.

“Sunbae,” Wonwoo had murmured before leaning in to kiss Jeonghan, the acrid taste of beer on his lips.

Is it enough to know someone from one kiss? To know Wonwoo from the way he had smiled and whispered, “I like looking for you in the stands before my matches. You’re like my good luck charm,” a quiet confession lost between requests for more soju and “Who the fuck gave Mingyu the aux, turn that shit off” “Shut the fuck up, Seungkwan. I’m not playing your Kpop playlist—”

The next Monday, Jeonghan had walked into Marketing and Wonwoo, who had been looking at the door, turned his head and stared straight ahead at the projector screen, refusing to make eye contact. And so Jeonghan gave up the image of Wonwoo in his white tennis uniform and cap and instead memorized Wonwoo in his button-ups and hoodies and occasional blazer. (If anyone asked him why he kept attending tennis matches, well, he _was_ supporting his best friend).

The sudden silence draws him out of his thoughts. Jeonghan looks toward Wonwoo’s court. The ball hopper is empty and Wonwoo is crouched down, placing tennis balls on his racquet. Standing up, Jeonghan grabs the hopper and joins Wonwoo, the two of them picking up balls in silence.

“Thank you, sunbae,” Wonwoo says quietly when Jeonghan sets the hopper upright again and holds it still, allowing Wonwoo to slide the balls off his racquet and into the basket.

“Hyung is fine,” Jeonghan says. He smiles, more teeth than necessary. “I am your good luck charm, after all.”

Jeonghan’s glad he’s holding the ball hopper because Wonwoo’s racquet slips out of his hand, the frame clanging against the metal of the basket before hitting the ground. Jeonghan inwardly winces at the new scratches on the racquet.

Wonwoo picks up his racquet, his neutral expression betrayed by the tips of his ears reddening.

“Sorry, hyung,” he says, eyes trained on the tennis court, and Jeonghan decides that he’s sick of holding unspoken conversations.

“Oh, so you remember,” Jeonghan says. “Are you apologizing for kissing me while drunk or for kissing me?” Before Wonwoo speaks, Jeonghan adds, “I don’t take kindly to liars.”

“I’m sorry for kissing you when I was drunk,” Wonwoo says.

“Are you drunk now?” Jeonghan asks.

Wonwoo finally looks up at Jeonghan, confused, and shakes his head no.

“Great.” Jeonghan leans over the ball hopper and grabs Wonwoo’s shirt, pulling him down so Jeonghan can kiss him. Unlike last time, Wonwoo’s lips are cold and dry from the night breeze, but he leans into the kiss, his mouth pliant.

Jeonghan wrinkles his nose when he pulls back. “You should invest in some chapstick.”

“Well excuse me for not expecting to be kissed on a tennis court at, what was it, ten at night,” Wonwoo replies. He moves his hand up, as if to touch his lips, but decides against it, his arm falling limply against his side. “What was that for?” The blush, Jeonghan notes with delight, has spread from his ears to his cheeks.

“Wonwoo,” Jeonghan says simply, “I am not the type of person who does things out of pity.” It feels odd laying his motives out, like he’s opening a tin of Royal Dansk and expecting sewing supplies but being greeted by butter cookies instead.

It’s worth it, though, to see Wonwoo’s eyes light up. This time, he’s the one who leans in, the press of his lips soft against Jeonghan’s. Jeonghan marvels at the gentle curve of Wonwoo’s smile, failing to notice that he’s inching forward—

Jeonghan bumps into the ball hopper and it falls, scattering tennis balls everywhere.

“Shit,” he hisses, looking at the sea of fluorescent yellow in despair. “So much for being your good luck charm.”

Wonwoo laughs, his nose scrunching, and reaches out for the hopper. “Here,” he says, handing Jeonghan his racquet.

The second (more like eleventh, but he’s ignoring the rest of the ill-fated group lessons) time Jeonghan steps onto a tennis court, he is handed a too-large racquet and willingly gets on his knees to collect tennis balls. At the end, he is left with sore knees, a ball hopper placed far away to prevent any further harm, and a shoulder to lay his head on, courtesy of Jeon Wonwoo, as they sit on the courts, their backs against the fence.

  


**Author's Note:**

> plays “tennis court” by lorde  
> thank you for reading!


End file.
